


We're Of the North

by SilverSnowFox



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Forced Marriage, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-18
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-08-09 15:39:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7807555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverSnowFox/pseuds/SilverSnowFox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The North is a separate Kingdom which follows Targaryen tradition of marrying sibling to sibling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Grey Wedding

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own Game of Thrones or A Song of Fire and Ice.

"Do you think you’ll be the first person dragged into a sept to married against her will?" – Tywin Lannister.

**Sansa**

Her sister is crying. Actually, that’s an understatement. Arya is wailing and shrieking and flailing around like a madwoman. It takes three servants to dress her and two to hold her still enough for a handmaiden to do her hair. Despite the lavish, pearl embroidered dress, Arya still looks like a mess with her reddened face, slickened with tears and snot.

Their lady mother kneels before Arya with a handkerchief, gently scrubbing away at her daughter’s splotchy skin.

“Mother, please—,” Arya gasps out between sobs. “Please, I don’t want to get married. I don’t ever want to get married.”

“Shh, Arya,” Catelyn hushes her youngest daughter. “Robb is an honorable, just man and he will make you a fine husband.”

“It’s your wedding day, Arya,” Sansa chimes in from her corner of the room. She was too horrified by Arya’s uncontrollable behavior to get too close. “You should be happy. Robb will be King one day, and you’ll be Queen in the North. You’ll rule by his side and have princes and princesses as children.”

Arya pales at the mention of children and Sansa knows she’s made a dire mistake.

“I don’t want children! I want to explore and go on adventures. I want to go North of the Wall with Jon and see the Wildlings and their camps and I want to sail to Essos and become a sellsword,” Arya hisses.

In one quick second, she pushes away the women holding her in place and rushes for the door. She makes it out of the room, but the soldiers guarding the entrance are quick to grab at her arms and drag her back in. They bow to their Queen and exit as fast as they came in.

Sansa is glad that Nymeria is locked away in the stables. If she weren’t, there would definitely be a few dead bodies lying around by now.

“Arya, enough!” The Queen commands and Arya stills her struggles at once, dropping to the floor where she stands. Sansa has only ever heard that tone of voice in their mother when she spoke of their bastard half-brother.

“Do you know why you’ll be marrying Robb instead of the Southern King, Joffrey Baratheon, as is custom for the second daughter?” Her sister stays silent except for the slight sniffles that escape her. Arya probably hadn’t even thought about it. “It’s because they wouldn’t have you. Word spread about you gallivanting around in men’s clothing, swinging around wooden sticks, and playing in the mud and the Prince outright refused to marry you when mentions of a betrothal were made. So your father spoke with King Robert and it was decided that you would do better here in the North and Sansa would be sent to King’s Landing to be Prince Joffrey’s bride.”

Sansa had to hide a smile when her betrothal was mentioned. When her father came to her with apologetic eyes and a gentle voice and explained to her that she would be sent south in Arya’s place, Sansa was ecstatic. She hated the north and although the cold weather didn’t bother her, she wanted to see the southern knights in their shining armor and handsome bards singing love songs. Bards very rarely came north, as Northernmen considered singing men fools and therefore didn’t tip.

“Robb would never harm you,” Sansa tries to soothe her sister for the first time since she can remember. “He’s our brother and he already loves you. He’ll care for you and protect you and eventually you’ll fall in love with each other as husband and wife.”

Arya shakes her head frantically and outright growls when another woman tries to lift her off of the floor. “But I don’t want to get married!”

“Arya, you are a princess. It is your duty as a woman and as a Stark to marry,” their mother tells Arya firmly. “You’ve gotten out of your dancing classes and Septa’s lessons more times than I can count. You are not getting out of this.”

The silence that follows is deafening and Sansa desperately wants to fill it with chatter, but when she opens her mouth, a shout interrupts, “The King arrives!” The guards hold open the twin doors for their father and he walks in with all the grace that is expected of a man of his status.

Ned Stark takes one look at his youngest daughter and gives her a sad smile. He kneels down to her level and whispers something in her ear for a long moment. Sansa doesn’t know what he’s told her sister, but it seems to have worked because Arya shoulders slump and although there are still tears in her eyes, it’s obvious that she’s trying to reign them back in now. When he’s done, the King smooth’s back Arya’s hair, kisses her forehead, and takes her elbow, raising her back onto her feet.

“It’s time for the wedding to start,” he tells them with a strained smile. Their mother gives Arya one last hug and a kiss on the cheek before rushing out of the chamber and Sansa is quick to follow. Father stays with Arya while the handmaidens rub rogue on her cheeks and lip, but Sansa knows that she will see the both of them soon enough.

When they make it to the Godswood, everyone is already in position. All of the Lords and Ladies south of the Neck are lined up, eager to see the wedding of their future King. Robb stands by himself at the end of the line, his stance strong and unyielding.

He looks like a King already, but then he smiles at the two of them nervously and Sansa remembers when they were all children and how he would steal food from the kitchens. He would give their father the same look after he’d get caught. Sansa knows that he will make a good husband and she can’t understand how their sister can’t see that.

Her mother takes her place at the front of the line, to Robb’s right, and Sansa stands across from her, next to Bran. Jon is nowhere to be seen, the Queen absolutely forbid him from attending. Catelyn Stark somehow managed to convince her husband that he would cause trouble, considering his close relationship with Arya. Arya screamed and ranted when she heard the news, however their father had promised that Jon would be allowed to attend the celebratory feast the day after the wedding.

Sansa glances up at her brother and smiles when they share a look. It only lasts a second before Robb looks down the aisle, his throat rising and falling as he swallows. Sansa looks to where he is and straightens her stance even more.

Their father leads Arya to the heart tree with her arm curled around his elbow. Sansa immediately notices how Arya walks with dignity and grace; she doesn't drag her feet like Sansa predicted she would do. The tears that stained her cheeks are wiped away and the tomato red coloring that stained her face is replaced with a pale white. Arya’s head is held high, like a Queen, but Sansa notices how her fingers dance on their father’s skin and her eyes flicker around the Godswood like a caged animal.

Her sister looks beautiful, like a true Princess, and Sansa feels pride swell in her chest. If only her sister looked like this all the time. Arya’s hair is curled and tucked into an elaborate braid and the grey and white wedding dress compliments her coloring. A white cloak is tied daintily around Arya’s neck, embroidered with a grey dire wolf, and it drags behind her sister with every step she takes.

Sansa sees Robb smile comfortingly at their sister but her answering grin looks more like a grimace than anything else.

“Who comes? Who comes before the Old Gods this night?” Robb’s voice is unwavering, echoing throughout the Godswood.

“Arya, of the House Stark, comes here to be wed. A woman grown, trueborn, and noble. She comes to beg the blessings of the Gods. Who comes to claim her?” The King stops mere feet away from the heart tree.

Her oldest brother steps forward to meet them halfway, “Robb, of House Stark, heir to Winterfell and the North. Who gives her?”

“Eddard, of the House Stark, her father, Lord of Winterfell and King in the North. Princess Arya, do you take this man?” All eyes look to the bride and Arya fidgets in her spot.

“I—I take this man.” Unlike their father and brother, Arya stutters through her words.

The King has to physically pry her fingers off of his arm, which seems to snap Arya out of whatever trance she is in. She only needs to take a couple of steps to meet Robb, but Arya’s paces are so slow and small that it feels like forever has passed before she takes her place next to her husband’s side.

Their brother offers an arm to Arya and she hesitantly lays a hand in the crook of his elbow. He leads them back to the heart tree, where they both kneel, hands clasped together. The guests watch in complete silence until Robb stands, untying Arya’s cloak and replacing it with a more elaborately decorated one. The heir to the North offers his new wife a hand, which Arya takes, and they face the crowd with mixed emotions.

The guests’ cheer and shout, clapping their hands until Sansa can hear nothing else. They spend an hour in the Godswood while every Lord and Lady presents themselves to the newlyweds and offer their congratulations and good wishes.

Arya’s smile is stretched thin, and to Sansa it looks as if it’s taking Arya a profound amount of effort not to scream and run for freedom.

Robb is noticeably better; he falls into easy conversation with the Lords and smiles charmingly at the Ladies. Sansa isn’t surprised at this. Robb had always been the dutiful son, paying close attention to his every lesson, whether it was history or sword fighting or even etiquette.

Their family is the last to congratulate Robb and Arya, as is custom. Arya looks to the ground as soon as their family joins them and doesn’t glance up again. Their Queen Mother smiles at her children and offers some advice for their future marriage. “Love comes with time,” she assures both of the newlyweds. Catelyn lays a hand on Arya’s cheek and sighs when she still doesn’t lift her head.

“Be good to her, Robb,” their father tells the groom. The King’s voice is solemn and his eyes are serious and Robb keeps his gaze as he nods his head. Ned runs a hand through his daughter’s hair once more and kisses her on the forehead before taking his leave.

Sansa simply smiles at her siblings and offers a dainty curtsy. “Congratulations. I hope for the best of your future.” Arya nods once and Robb gives her a hug and a “thank you.” They had been the closest of their siblings growing up. Arya had Jon and Sansa had Robb. Sansa wouldn’t have minded being married to Robb, but the thought of moving South was a dream to her that she wouldn’t dare give up.

When Rickon and Bran finish with their congratulations, their father ushers all of the remaining guests out of the Godswood to allow the newlywoods to consummate their marriage before the Gods. Sansa doesn’t dare look back at her siblings.


	2. The Aftermath

Arya clenched her jaw tightly the moment the last man was out of sight. Grinding her teeth together, she glared at the ground, the trees, at the pristine doublet her brother was wearing, for she couldn’t bring herself to look into his eyes.

 

“I’m not going to,” Arya paused momentarily, her mind flittering around, trying to find the best word to use. “Lie with you. I’m not going to lie with you.”

 

She saw the way Robb’s chest moved up and down and heard the sigh that escaped through his lips.

 

“I figured so,” he replied, sounding so exhausted, Arya had to resist the urge to look at his face. To her surprise, Robb didn’t sound the least bit irritated.

 

“You’re not going to _do_ something about it?” Even as she uttered the words, Arya couldn’t imagine exactly what she expected of him. She thought for sure he would at least start lecturing her about their martial duties and the importance of heirs.

 

“What can I do, Arya?” Robb drug out the words, as if each one tired him even more so. “Rape you?”

 

“Wives can’t be raped by their husbands.” The mocking tone in her voice betrayed the words she spoke. How many countless times had she heard those same words coming from the mouths of scoundrels and Lords alike?

 

A bitter laugh penetrated the air and Arya couldn’t help but glance up to her new husband’s face. Robb’s expression was a complicated mixture of frustration, exhaustion, and a whole list of emotions that Arya couldn’t name.

 

“Then I shall not _persuade_ you.”

 

The silence that followed was deafening. Arya fiddled with the ties of her wedding cloak. The strings felt stifling and heavy against her throat.

 

“Thank you,” Arya whispered at long last. “For not forcing me.” She didn’t truly think that Robb would harm her, but he was definitely a dutiful son set in his beliefs. In the back of her mind, Arya feared that his outlook on duty would cause him to do the unspeakable.

 

“You don’t need to thank me,” Robb’s lips twisted into a small, fake smile. “I will never lay a hand upon you without your permission.”

 

Arya wrung her hands together and fought to contain the insult that threatened to escape her. She couldn’t imagine ever giving Robb permission to bed her. She wanted to voice this, to tell him that she didn’t ever want him to touch her in such a way but she kept the words safely in her mind.

 

She already knew what Robb’s response would be. He may never physically force her to lie with him, but he would stress how necessary it was for them to have children. The Stark line would have to live on and Robb would eventually be King in the North… And she would be Queen when that happened.

 

Arya grew up knowing that she would be Queen, but she pushed it out of her head every time the thought came to mind. She would be a horrible Queen and she feared how the realm would fair under her rule. She couldn’t even be a Lady, how could she ever hope to make their Kingdom flourish?

 

“What shall we do in the meantime?” Arya questioned him. She didn’t want to stand before the heart tree with Robb for hours. The awkward silence between them was already making her uncomfortable.

 

“Shall we take a walk, my Princess?” At the very least, the smile that accompanied these words was true. Robb’s worries seemed to melt away with the change of subject and he no longer looked twice his age.

 

“Don’t call me Princess,” Arya scolded him. She had repeated the same words dozens of times before, to the stablehands and the cooks and even the occasional Northern Lady and Lordling. It never seemed to work though, no one outside of her family referred to her as simply, “Arya.”

 

She took the arm he offered with little hesitancy, completely opposite as it had been at the wedding.

_Think of him as a brother,_ Arya told herself. _He is my brother._

Inwardly, Arya knew that if she kept telling herself such things, it would cause problems in the future. She would need to see him as her husband eventually. _He is my husband, too._

“Father told me that he will be leaving with Sansa for King’s Landing,” Robb informed her as they weaved around the red-leaved trees. Against her will, Arya’s fingers tightened around his arm and her eyes snapped to his immediately.

 

“Father’s leaving Winterfell?” Arya tried to think of a time in history that a Northern King left the North and couldn’t come up with anything. “But he’s the King.”

 

“Aye,” Robb said gravely. “Just for half a year. He wants to make sure that Sansa will be comfortable and happy with Prince Joffrey. It is a bit odd that we haven’t heard a whisper about his character since he was but a child. He also wants to leave the Kingdom in my hands, so that I’ll be better prepared to rule once the time comes.”

           

“The North cares not for whispers and rumors,” Arya said. Unlike their Southern neighbors, Northerners were blunt and transparent for the most part, uninterested in falsehoods.

 

“Even so, Joffrey is a Prince. We should have heard at least something about him.”

 

Arya vaguely remembered the rumors that spread years ago, when she was just a little girl. People said that Prince Joffrey cut open a pregnant cat and scooped out her kittens, right in the hallway of the Red Keep. It was the last thing she ever heard about Prince Joffrey, which was odd considering their prior engagement.

 

When she was still betrothed to him, Arya feared what cruel acts he would do to her. After bringing up her concerns to her father, he gave her a tense smile and said that Prince Joffrey was still just a young boy.

 

“I hope Sansa will be safe,” Arya murmured. Sansa and Arya were as alike as night and day, but they were still sisters. Arya would hate for Sansa to be stuck in a marriage with a madman for a husband.

 

“As do I,” Robb agreed, his lips tightened together.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, long time no see. I've been thinking about updating forever honestly, but with work and school and my own ingrained laziness, it took me awhile to actually put some action behind the thought. I was going to make it longer, but I knew that if I did I wouldn't be able to update today and I think that you've been waiting long enough, so here it is!


	3. Friends?

The moon was high in the sky by the time the two make their way to Robb’s room. Arya scanned the room with pursed lips. The last time she was in Robb’s quarters was when he used to share them with Jon, years ago. Before her mother complained that the heir to the Northern Kingdom should not have to share space with a bastard.

The extra bed that Jon used to occupy was taken out when he was moved and now all that was left in its stead was empty space.

Robb’s bed was more than big enough for the two of them, but the idea of being so close to her new husband caused her to hesitate. Robb wasn’t just her brother anymore. The implications were forever changed.

“I’ll take the right side and you can have the left,” Robb commented upon seeing where her focus was.

Arya nodded once and crawled on the bed, wedding dress still donned. It was heavy and itchy, but Arya refused to strip down to her slip. The sound of Robb’s doublet hitting the floor caused Arya to tense infinitesimally. Her eyes remained locked to the wall when the weight of Robb’s body caused the bed to sink.

When Robb’s arm brushed against her back, Arya squirmed uncomfortably and scooted over to the very edge of the bed. The position made her feel as if she would roll off, but Arya stubbornly kept her position.

“Sorry,” Robb muttered.

“It’s fine.”

The two lied in tense silence until the sound of Robb’s snores filled the air. Arya, on the other hand, was as alert as a wolf on the hunt. Her eyes started to water the longer she stared at the wall and Arya furiously blinked them back. How unfair life was, to be forced to marry her own brother. By the time Arya fell asleep the sky was already starting to lighten up.

* * *

 

Arya woke up to the blankets being yanked off. The cold chill of the Northern air immediately alerted her.

“I tried to wake you up gently,” Robb informed her when he saw the incredulous look she threw him.

He was already dressed in a freshly washed doublet and breeches. Arya looked towards the window where the sun shined bright.

“How long have I been asleep?” Arya asked, rolling out of the warm bed.

“It’s almost noon,” Robb answered, lacing up his boots from the wooden chair in front of his desk. “You missed breakfast with the family.”

“You should have woken me up earlier then,” Arya snapped, running her fingers along the fabric of her wedding feast dress.

Robb ignored the slight and fixed his eyes pointedly on the dress. “The maids wanted to come in earlier to dress you, but I told them that they would have to wait.”

“Why?”

“The obvious reason,” Robb nodded to wear she stood; still garbed in the elaborate wedding dress she was forced into earlier.

“Oh.” She didn’t even think about that. An embarrassed flush caused her face to redden and she reluctantly thanked him for his thoughtfulness.

Robb shrugged off her thanks and tucked the ends of his breeches farther into his boots.

“Can you turn around?” Arya asked when he was finished. She’d need to lose the wedding gown before the maids entered. Robb didn't answer, just turned in his chair until he was facing the wall.

Arya turned around too, her arms reaching behind her to untie the lacings that held the wedding dress to her body. Her fingers fumbled with the strings though and she was only able to unlace the dress partially before she grew frustrated. A sigh escaped her lips and she narrowed her eyes into a hateful glare.

“Do you have a knife on you?” Arya asked. She knew he would have at least one, being heir to a throne was dangerous and protection was necessary at all times.

“What? Why?” The incredulous tone is Robb’s voice would have caused her to laugh, if not for the humiliating situation. Instead it only made her more irritated.

“So that I can cut off this stupid dress!”

Arya heard Robb huff and knew that he was attempting to hold back his laughter. She had to grind her teeth together to keep from yelling at him.

“Just let me help,” Robb replied after a brief moment.

“No!” Arya barked back.

“The maids would see that the laces are cut,” Robb stated matter-of-factly.

Arya didn’t reply back, but the tense silence spoke for her. Upon turning around, Robb saw her fists clenching the lace of her dress in her white knuckles. Her shoulders noticeably flexed when his fingers caught on to the two stray strings. He made quick work of the laces and pried open the heavy fabric once it was finished.

The white shift underneath the wedding dress gave her a modicum of propriety however Arya still couldn’t suppress the shiver that ran through her once the cold air met the skin of her bare shoulders.

“Thank you,” Arya gritted out in the end, and Robb knew that this was his cue to leave. “Can you tell the maids that they can come in now?”

 

* * *

 

 

“I hope that you understand that we’re married now,” Robb drawled out once the last of the maids exited the room.

Arya was seated in front of the vanity, running a comb through her hair. It was the maid’s job to do such trivial things, however Robb knew that Arya had probably dismissed them before they could so much as touch her hair.

A brief moment of silence followed his comment and Robb wondered if Arya even heard him in the first place.

“I understand well enough,” Arya huffed, nearly slamming the comb down onto the wooden surface before her. “What’s your point?”

“You’re going to need to accept it,” Robb replied. “Hopefully one day soon.”

“What do you mean by that?” Arya seethed, turning around to face him so quickly that Robb was surprised she didn’t get whiplash.

“I don’t want to spend the rest of our marriage dealing with each other,” Robb reasoned. “I want us to be happy, like mother and father. We can make things work, but I can’t do it all by myself.”

The vitriol on Arya’s face disappeared almost as fast as it appeared.

“I never wanted any of this to happen,” she admitted. “You were supposed to marry Sansa. You’d be happier with her.”

“You don’t know that for sure,” Robb replied, though his tone swayed. A bitter laugh escaped Arya’s lips before she could stop it and she turned back around in her chair to glare at the mirror before her.

“Yes, I do.”

“I didn’t marry Sansa though. I married you. We both said our vows before the Old Gods and what’s done is done. I want to know what I can possibly do to make this more comfortable for you.”

“What’s your favorite color?” Arya asked.

“Excuse me?” Robb puzzled at the shear absurdity of the question.

“It’s just that… you’re my oldest brother and now my husband. We’ve lived together my entire life, but I still don’t know something as simple as your favorite color. I know that Jon likes black and Sansa adores pink, but I still don’t know what’s yours,” Arya elaborated.

“Grey,” Robb answered. “Like the color of our banner.”

“Mine is blue, like the winter roses Aunt Lyanna loved so much.” Arya furrowed her brow and picked at the fabric of her dress. “If we’re going to make this marriage work, I’d like to start off as friends.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, it's been a few months. Sorry I have no excuse other than that I'm lazy...


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